Crossing the length of the clearing, she was practically running with Malcolm in tow. Her lovely face was etched with concern.
“Do not hurt him!” she commanded softly. “Christian, you are breaking his arm!”
“I am doing nothing of the kind,” Christian said calmly, cocking a blond eyebrow at her. “Why, may I ask, did you reveal yourself before I had a chance to act?”
“Because I was afraid you were going to kill them,” she said frankly, watching the man twist and yelp with a distinct sense of dismay. “Now that you have captured him, what do you plan to do?”
The man was terribly skinny and disheveled, a pathetic little mouse in Christian’s mighty trap. Gnashing his teeth, it was apparent he was attempting to bite the English warrior and Christian held the man at arm’s length as he watched him foam and twitch.
“What would you suggest I do?” he asked.
Gaithlin looked to him, surprised he would ask her opinion. The omnipotent Demon did not require suggestions or council, and certainly not from a woman. A de Gare. Flattered, not to mention strangely empowered by his regard for her convictions, she thought carefully as she eyed the thrashing human.
“Tie him up until he calms,” she said. “Then, mayhap we will be able to reason with him.”
He nodded faintly, thoughtfully. “That is logical. Were I to release him now, he would flee in terror, yet his seemingly natural instincts to steal and pillage would be undaunted in the least. Although properly frightened, he would indeed return and I refuse to rebuild my shelter only to find it torn down again sometime in the future,” he began to move across the clearing with his thrashing captive in hand as Gaithlin and Malcolm followed closely. “I must make him understand that I will not tolerate his incursions and if I have to tie him to a tree and pound my message deep into his dim-witted skull, then so be it.”
Tying the dog-man to the tree, however, proved to be a chore of enormous proportions. Even though the man was skinny and frail-looking, he was sly and wily and on more than one occasion nearly escaped Christian’s grasp. After the second such near-attempt, Christian’s patience waned and he decided it would be best if he held the man in place while Gaithlin secured the bindings.
Working as an efficient team, Christian used brute strength to hold the man against a youthful Scot pine while Gaithlin firmly tied the prisoner to the trunk. Malcolm hovered beside Gaithlin, informing her where to place the rope and exactly how tightly to secure the ties as Christian spent his time avoiding flying spit and thrashing feet.
As the sun sank low in the deepening colors of the pristine Scot sky, Gaithlin finished securing the male to the sturdy young tree. Able to release his hold, Christian studied her handiwork with a critical eye.
“A fine knot, my lady,” he said with genuine approval. “Our captive will be unable to break free for months to come. Good Christ, I shall be lucky if I can cut the man free myself.”
Gaithlin smiled modestly, glancing at the beaming young boy by her side. “Malcolm helped,” she said quietly, moving her shy gaze from Christian’s admiring stare to the wagon and ox bordering the clearing. “Now, we should really store our supplies before night falls. Malcolm, come and assist me.”
The eager lad moved immediately to comply with her orders, dashing across the clearing in tattered but clean clothing and boots that were a bit too large for his feet. Gaithlin took a step to follow when a massive gauntlet suddenly reached out, snatching her arm with fierce tenderness.
She knew what was coming before she felt the warmth of his delicious lips, having been the recipient of his spontaneous kisses many a time. With a smile and full cooperation, she pressed herself against his armored chest and delightfully accepted his searing kiss.
Gaithlin was rapidly becoming upswept in his heat when Malcolm shouted something from the wagon, distracting both of her and Christian from their mounting passion. Breathing heavily and with grunts of disappointment, they somehow managed to disengage their lips as their vision sought the small, animated figure at the edge of the trees.
“What did he say?” Gaithlin swallowed, attempting to regain her crumbling control.
“Does it matter?” Christian’s lips moved along her cheek, his breath hot and forceful in her ear.
It would be so easy to give in to his desire. Gaithlin closed her eyes as shivers of erotica cavorted down her spine, turning her knees to water. But Malcolm shouted again and she caught the gist of the message, breaking her from her most delicious, desired experience.
“He needs help with the ox,” she whispered, avoiding Christian’s lips when they attempted to capture her mouth. “Not now, Christian. We must help Malcolm.”
With a heavy sigh writ of remorse and resignation, Christian removed his lips from Gaithlin’s jaw and released her arm. Her cheeks mottled with blush, she held his gaze for a long, entirely passion-filled moment.
“Later, you say?” he repeated, his voice hoarse with lust. “Is that a promise?”
Ever so coyly, she smiled and lowered her gaze. Adult games were coming far easier to her these days, in practice with Christian’s delightfully experienced presence. Beyond the passion and the blinding lust that seemed to be able to dictate her very actions as a result of his physical onslaught, there was far more of an emotional foreplay that they were coming deeply to know.
A slender finger flirtatiously traced the square line of his granite jaw, her flushed face glowing with the warmth they so obvious shared. Her faintly-curved lips broadened with offering.
“Not a promise, sire. An invitation.”
His eyebrows rose faintly, a delicious smile playing on his lips. “An invitation?” he took her in his arms once more, ignoring Malcolm’s shouts of frustration. “My lady, I would respond to that invitation immediately. I am your willing servant, any time or anywhere. Any way, for that matter.”
One hand around his neck and the other toying with his shoulder-length hair, Gaithlin averted her eyes coquettishly. “Our shelter will be sufficient. After Malcolm sleeps.”
A gentle frown creased his brow. “Malcolm is to sleep with us? I believe I mentioned it would be wise not to force our company and customs upon him. Mayhap he doesn’t wish to sleep with us. Mayhap he is perfectly content in the Wood.”
She met his frown. “What you mean to say is that we will not be free to do as we please with Malcolm bedded a few feet away,” she shook her head at him, a knowing smile on her lips. “How selfish, Christian. You think only of yourself.”
With feigned upset, Christian released her from his embrace and scowled. “As is my right. ’Tis my shelter and my goods, and I shall act however I please. If I want to sleep alone with the woman I intend to marry, then so be it.”
“Malcolm can sleep in the alcove.” Still grinning, Gaithlin turned away from him. “The small room is perfect for him.”
Hands on hips, Christian’s scowl turned genuine. “Did you not hear a word I said? If I want to sleep in my shack, alone with you, then that is the way of things.”
Moving across the clearing, Gaithlin glanced over her shoulder with a tolerant, entirely superior expression. “I heard you.”
He watched her as she winked at him, a gesture reminiscent of himself, and continued to make her way toward the stymied young lad as he struggled with the stubborn ox.
Without the benefit of further argument and supplication, Christian realized with resignation that the shack was indeed large enough for the three of them. Gaithlin had made her wishes known, and the Demon, naturally, would comply.
‘The Heart is a slave to the Soul’s desires.
And the Soul is a vicious master.’
~ Chronicles of Christian St. John
Vl. VIII, p. LI
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rougham Castle
Scotland
“God’s Holy Blood. When’s th’ last ye contacted th’ St. John?”
“I have ne’er contacted them. They dunna want tae hae any to do wi’ the Do
uglas.”
“But Da knew Henri and Jean, din’ he?”
Across the table from his broad, dark-haired brother, Roger Douglas nodded slowly. “He knew ’em. But th’ St. John are an arrogant lot. They dunna like tae be reminded o’ their Scot ties even though we all share th’ same great-grandsire.”
Mac Douglas stamped his big feet on the worn stone floor. Snorting with sarcasm and disbelief, he turned away from his older brother. “So th’ young St. John pup demands we deliver ‘is message.”
Roger stared at the tightly-secured vellum placed before him, sealed twice with the St. John signet in a muddle of cheap tallow and fat. “He asked my permission to lodge wi’in Galloway for reasons he dinna elaborate upon. More importantly, th’ messenger said th’ missive was in urgent need of being delivered tae Eden and not tae be delayed.”
Mac snorted again, shaking his head with the irony of it all. “Beggin’ yer sanction one moment and making’ demands th’ next. The pup is givin’ ye orders, Rake.”
“He’s makin’ a request o’ his kin.”
Mac’s mirth fled as he eyed his fair-haired brother; exceedingly tall and intelligent, he had ruled the Clan Douglas for nearly five years. Unassuming and somewhat mild in character for a Scots, he was an extremely steady force behind an otherwise volatile clan and the respect gained from his family and allies alike was a powerful, preserving bond.
“Th’ St. Johns were allied to us long ago, when Uncle Nolan’s daughter married inta their midst. Ye be foolin’ yerself tae believe th’ St. Johns still hold true tae that alliance.” Eyeing the missive lying still upon the table, he turned away in disapproval. “I say burn it. Show th’ St. John ye canna be used at their convenience, when they alone decide th’ time is right to remember their Scot brethren.”
Roger sighed, raking his fingers through his bright blond hair as he continued to stare at the source of their argument. Mac was correct, of course; the St. John had ignored the Scot ties for decades, instead choosing to vent their attention and monies on a long-standing English war that had occupied the vast majority of their focus. Clearly, Roger remembered on several occasions when his father had made an attempt to strengthen the allied link with his English cousins. And, clearly, Roger remembered the distinct rejection.
The St. Johns were not to be bothered with the barbaric, less-cultured Scots. A rejection that stung true, even now.
Gazing at the yellowed parchment, it wasn’t the first time Roger realized he and his father thought a good deal alike. Angus Douglas had been mild-mannered for a Scot as well, eager to maintain peace and build family strengths. Staring at the missive before him, Roger was aware that he too would like nothing better than to re-establish ties with their distant English cousins.
Not for monetary purposes, to be sure. But simply for the fact that the St. Johns were family, and family was supposed to be united. Not ignored and abandoned like a simpleton relative.
Reaching out, Roger grasped the parchment in his large palm, observing the careful seal. Mac was probably right; he should burn it in a fit of anger. How dare the St. John ask for assistance when they had spent the past several decades ignoring their northern relatives. But as he inspected the missive, Roger realized that the future hope of re-establishing communication was lodged within the fold of his palm; mayhap if he were to comply with the request, the St. John would view it as a favor well done. Then, mayhap, there would be hope for future bonding.
“Send Robert tae me,” his voice was soft, knowing that his compliance to the St. John request was already the recipient of his brother’s strenuous objection. Yet before Mac could voice his opposition, Roger put up a stern hand. “Not a word, Macky. We must prove tae th’ St. John that we are still a gracious ally in spite o’ their rejection. Mayhap they’ll not be willin’ tae spurn us so readily if they realize our forgiveness o’ their English pride.”
Mac stared at his older brother for a lengthy moment, biting off his words of refusal and disagreement. Roger was laird, after all; mayhap it befitted his position to possess the grace that others did not. Mac, for one, was still in favor of burning the missive and sending the ashes back to the St. John pup. But out of respect for his brother, he would not voice his disparity.
“As ye say, Rake. Wha’s th’ lad’s name?” he finally asked, sounding particularly belligerent in spite of his obedient manner.
“Wha’ lad?”
“Th’ St. John pup.”
Roger sighed, setting the missive to the table once more. “Christian.”
Mac nodded, eyeing the offensive parchment one last time. “Th’ lad has a nickname, I am told. A fearsome warrior.”
With popping joints, Roger rose from his chair in a decidedly weary gesture. “Th’ Demon, he’s referred tae. And yer callin’ th’ man a lad when he’s older than ye.”
Mac shrugged. Every man was “lad” to him. “So we do th’ Demon a favor. Question bein’, will he do us one in return?”
“I am not askin’ for favors returned. I am simply obeyin’ his request tae forward his missive tae Eden.”
“But yer hopin’ for a favorable response from Jean St. John. A thanks, me thinks. An’ a regrowth of th’ alliance.”
Roger lifted his shoulders. “Only good can come out of passin’ th’ missive on tae Eden,” he said quietly. Casting a final glance at the parchment, his expression was particularly pensive. “Th’ St. Johns are’na the only Sassenach allies we hae. Long ago, we were linked tae the Northumberland House of Percy.”
Mac thought a moment. “The house Calandra Douglas married intae?”
Roger nodded. “After th’ laird got ’er wi’ child.”
Mac nodded in recollection. “Alan publicly disavowed her after that.”
“But he ne’er forgot ‘her, bein’ his favorite daughter,” Roger pondered the distinct shame his family had once suffered, the darker alliance that bound them to the great Northumberland House of Gray. A link that had been forgotten almost the moment it had been forged. After a moment, he disregarded the distantly distressing train of thought in favor of more immediate concerns. “Out wi’ ye, little brother. Send Robert tae me.”
“I can take th’ missive tae Eden,” Mac said with resignation in his voice. “There’s nae need tae send young Robbie.”
“Robbie’s a better rider and a faster thinker than ye,” Roger insulted his brother, good-naturedly accomplished. “Move yer hide. Th’ Demon’s missive must be delivered.”
Insulted in addition to having his objections quelled, Mac quit the room in a mild fit. Roger listened to the fading bootfalls, wondering if his hopes would be fulfilled in the deliverance of Christian St. John’s imperative missive. Wondering if, finally, the House of St. John would give the Douglas their notice.
He didn’t know why he was so concerned with their approval. Mayhap because he had inherited the strong Douglas trait of family closeness; ties above all else, blood stronger than life itself. Mayhap he would succeed where his grandfather and father had failed. Maybe he would re-establish the St. John bond.
He had no idea, of course, that the information contained within the yellowed folds would be enough to send Jean St. John into a hatred-induced vortex that would threaten to devour the very fabric of stability shared by the North. Had Roger known the extent of his actions, he would have taken Mac’s advice to burn the parchment without a trace of remains.
Gaithlin awoke, cold and alone, to the snorting bray of the ox. Directly across from her pallet of rushes and illuminated by the gray light of morning, Malcolm slept quite soundly huddled in a ball upon the icy dirt floor. The bed she had prepared for him of excess fabric and fresh rushes the night before had been ignored in lieu of his natural sleeping arrangements.
She watched the bald little lad as he sniffled and shivered in his slumber, thinking he would have indeed been happier sleeping in accustomed surroundings as Christian had suggested. Yet, because she had demanded the lad sleep with them, he had obediently complie
d. Observing Malcolm as he wriggled and twitched upon the damp earth, she was forced to admit that, mayhap, she had been wrong. He didn’t seem any more content within the confines of their shelter than he did outside in the harsh elements.
Sighing with resignation, she decided to allow Malcolm to sleep wherever he desired and to the Devil with her petty, motherly demands. After all, she had always been prone to a good deal of fret and was chagrined to realize she had, mayhap, overreacted to the boy’s situation. Indeed, mayhap he was fine without her interference.
Since Christian had vacated their bed, there was no point in dozing away the last few darkened moments before the breaking sun signaled the commencement of a new day. Gaithlin rolled wearily into a sitting position, gazing at the vacated length of wool that Christian usually occupied. Her fingers lingered over the fabric a moment as she pondered their sleeping arrangements; over the past several days, she had come to relish his heat in the chill early morning, snuggling close to him and listening to his grunts of lustful frustration.
His agreement to refrain from claiming her “dowry” until they were properly wed was proving thus far to be an extreme test of his willpower; Gaithlin had been admirably proud of his restraint until she realized that her newly-learned passion within the arms of the Demon was a consuming force. Suddenly, she found herself greatly in need of her own self-employed willpower, a concept that baffled and thrilled her at the same time.
The more he touched and fondled, the more she wanted him to claim her in every sense of the word. Although purely virgin in the literal sense, she had a basic knowledge of coupling and mating rituals and was not entirely ignorant of what, exactly, her body was craving. Still, there was an aura of mystery and fear surrounding her uncontrollable needs and as of last eve, she found herself wondering if her demands to deliver the dowry on the day of their wedding to be an entirely wise decision. She realized that she wanted it as badly as he did.
Gaithlin had never been one to daydream of love or endless devotion. All that had existed in her dream world was the fervent hope that, someday, she would be rescued from her impoverished plight. There was no time for silly dreams of adoration that were unlikely to become reality within the realm of her destitute situation, and being an inherently reasonable woman, she was unwilling to torture herself with the impossibilities.
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